


Terrible Beauty

by beautifulterriblequeen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Avatar State Thranduil, BAMF Thranduil, Beautiful monster, Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Caring Thranduil, Consent Issues, Gen, Healer Thranduil, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Thranduil, Protective Thranduil, Sassy Elves, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, Thranduil is Pretty as Fuck, Twisted Elves, Walking Mood Board Thranduil, shared memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulterriblequeen/pseuds/beautifulterriblequeen
Summary: Fifty years have passed since the Battle of the Five Armies. Thranduil has come to terms with most of his issues, and he is the king his people need him to be. But one night his dreams are invaded by a cry for help, and Thranduil finds himself confronting a dark and terrible form of the Shadow that even he, in his long life, has never encountered. To fight it, to save the life and soul of an innocent and protect all those within his realm from the Shadow's reach, he must embrace the memory of his own darkest day and somehow find his way back to the Light.





	1. The Nightwood

**Author's Note:**

> No romance, just aesthetic: Thranduil strutting about and looking devastatingly attractive for no reason at all. The story also deals with some dark issues that happen off screen and are alluded to a few times, which is why I didn't mark any content warnings. That's what the tags and this note are for. In a nutshell, Nimuell is a sexual abuse survivor, and Thranduil's job is to help the poor kid recover. Within the setting of Middle-Earth, of Eryn Lasgalen, there are other concerns and concepts that Thranduil has to consider, but I tried to tuck the story into its world with as few seams showing as possible. If you're still up for this, read on.
> 
> Nimuell was written so that the character's gender is never specified. Wasn't easy, and could be a little weird. Just pick Nimuell's gender before you start reading, and you'll be fine. Nimuell can be your avatar, if you like, but that's up to you. They're only referred to in the third person.
> 
> With Nimuell's name, I aimed for a balance between the "-iel" female name suffix, like Tauriel and Galadriel, and Thranduil's "-uil", while pulling in a bit of "el" from "edhel," elf. I specifically avoided using the Sindarin words "elleth" and "ellon," for female and male elves, in this tale, and as you'll see eventually, I feel like I entirely cheated by using the similar-sounding "elloth," the word for flower, as part of one of Nimuell's nicknames, because it sounds so "elvish" and yet isn't. And it fits perfectly with the character.
> 
> Oh, and apologies in advance if you're good with Sindarin and my hatchet job of attempting grammatically correct elvish wording gives you a migraine. I'm happy to accept pointers. I only hyperfocused on it for one day and dumped it all into this story with possibly more enthusiasm than accuracy, so I'm sure that parts of it come across to a fluent user like "Y'all'd've," and for that, Thranduil and everyone else has my most sincere apologies.

Night lay her cloak across the vaulted arch of Eryn Lasgalen, draping the elven realm with soothing velvet skies and a vivid spangling of well-beloved stars. Within the subterranean halls of the Elvenking, all lay at peace. The vast chambers and halls slept. Colonnaded corridors breathed of easy dreams. Moonlight shafted through round _hâlgalad_ frames high above, limning stone, wood, tapestry, and jewels alike in sacred silence.

The forest realm slept.

Thranduil Oropherion, the Elvenking, slept. He dreamt.

Until he did not.

A wordless cry began in the depths of his dream. It drew his attention from sweeter things, ringing in his ears as a high, straining voice echoing around him in a thick wood, its source obscured. As he searched for its origin, it resolved into a single word.

“ _Elio… elio!_ ”

The cry for aid arrested his stride through the fading snows of _echuir_. The warmth of _ethuil_ , full spring, rode the night air as the scent of freshly baked bread promises a full belly ere fast is broken. “Where are you?” the king murmured, turning in the dream that was no longer a dream. His sword appeared in his gloved hand, and his vined breastplate and plated pauldrons weighted his broad torso, draping his dark, silvered battle cloak behind him. Receiving no answer, he spoke again. “Who are you, that you call out to me?”

“ _Elionin… Nallant fae nín…”_ Help me… My spirit cries out…

Thranduil’s cerulean gaze darted around the dream wood. He knew this place, yet not why a young _edhel_ should cry out to him here as if in mortal peril. The wood lay close by his halls, bordered by a stream and a broad road.  “I should like to help you. Reveal yourself.” His sheath accepted its blade with a bare whisper, and Thranduil held his hands out in harmlessness.

The little voice did not reply. Curious and a little impatient, Thranduil cast his mind wide. A faint, trembling Eldar presence reverberated against his senses, and Thranduil turned unerringly toward a tangled cluster of snowy elderberry shrubs. With long stride and sure step, the king approached.

“Who is there?” he called gently. “Why do you seek me in my dreams?”

But as he rounded the shrubs, the placid vision of the night-swept forest shattered, flaring in violent reds and yellows. A small form scuttled back from him, crying out, flinging as much grace and power as it possessed directly at Thranduil’s face.

Surprised for the first time in over five decades, Thranduil missed his footing, and a jar of tension rocketed up his spine as he threw up a hand to forestall the sudden attack, to repel it with his own powerful magic. A wordless howl filled his ears, and the vision burned away, leaving his chest tight and airless, his nerves afire.

Thranduil jerked fully awake and flung himself upright with an exhalation of alarm. His long hair flared with his sudden motion and settled over his shoulders like a cloak of moonlight, gleaming above his unblemished ivory skin. His quarters were silent, serene. Their spacious expanse lay undisturbed. No assailant loomed over him. No Shadow lurked at his window.

Yet something was terribly wrong in his forest. Something that he must not wait to root out.

The king stilled his elegant features and allowed himself two breaths to regain control. Then he threw aside his thick coverlet and strode through a broad shaft of moonlight, glowing like an alabaster statue given breath, to fetch himself some raiment befitting a swift nighttime ride.

A short while later, he flung open the door to his chambers and strode out, startling his guards. They snapped to attention, perceiving his intent to depart. Indeed, it was writ large in the heavy silver cloak that billowed from his shoulders, his sturdy, berry-bright tunic over fog-hued leggings and knee-high black boots, and the pair of well-used riding gloves he clenched in one fist. His crown of state graced his head—the forest beckoned it, and so he wore it—its pale wildbrier fingers caressed by tiny purple crocus buds and gleaming white snowdrop florets that swelled with the approach of _ethuil_. A small bundle rode beneath his other arm.

“ _Aranen_ ,” one guard inquired alertly, “where do you go at this deep hour?”

Thranduil neither slowed nor turned, save the bare shift of his chin and the fall of his silverflax hair. His deep voice drifted back to them as he stalked into the night-shaded corridor. “I will return shortly. Waken Tauriel. I may have need of her ere I return.”

“ _Ná, aranen_.” Yes, my king. The guards’ chorus satisfied him, and he heard one pair of footsteps patter away to awaken his Captain of the Guard.

Through empty halls, Thranduil strode as if a petal riding the stream. His dark cloak streamed behind him, catching shafts of moonlight and winking brightly amongst the sheltering shadows. Deep in his spirit, he could hear the rush of a distant waterfall approaching, far greater and more deadly than any delicate freshet that trickled through his kingly halls. Yet he could not Foretell the exact danger, or whom it threatened. The war drums of threat seemed to echo around him as the young voice had in his vision. He lowered his head, and a grim smile overtook his lips. The Elvenking had never been one to shrink from battle. Not when his own were under threat.

Astride Celegfang, his great elk, scion of the companion he had lost over fifty years ago during the Battle of the Five Armies, Thranduil burst from the stables at a full gallop. The night embraced him with warm arms and whispered secrets in his ears of the quickening of the earth. “Blessed king. _Echuir_ passes. _Ethuil_ draws nigh—the Stirring. Life rises, strives. _Anto den. Berio den._ ” May it be enriched. May it be protected.

The strangely insistent echoes of the land’s spirit rippled across Thranduil’s sharp focus. As Celegfang bore him unerringly toward the nearby wood of his vision, Thranduil found cause to revisit that vision’s sudden end. His eyes never wavered from his destination, indeed his cloak-streaming body seemed to float in proximity to Celegfang’s back only by the merest happenstance, so enveloped in grace was the Elvenking, yet his mind relived those most startling moments.

In little time at all, Thranduil reined Celegfang to a halt in a shaft of gentle moonlight. The wood of his vision surrounded him. Not an hour had passed since he had walked its paths in his mind, but the fresh, cool scents and the tender silence that snugged the alders and the firs rode even brighter in his senses.

As did the small Eldar.

Thranduil raised his chin and allowed himself to be seen. “ _Tolo-e_ , _hên_.” Come forth, child. “I know you are there.”

Silence. The young _edhel_ ’s spirit fairly vibrated, as a sparrow caught in a net.

Thranduil tilted his head as if listening intently, and the moonlight caressed the soft fall of his hair. “Did you think you could call to me, _hên_ , and I would not reply? Here I am. Speak your concern.” He gestured with broad generosity, a confident smile upon his full lips. “You have the full attention of your king, who notes well that you dwell not behind the elderberry cluster any longer, but that a certain alder of fewer years than yourself now offers you shelter.” Thranduil pinioned the tree with his winter-bright gaze. And waited.

A stripling of an _edhel_ shot to a standing position, tottering in fright, and clung to a slender alder branch for support. A fall of auburn hair, somewhat tangled, revealed a Silvan origin. Voice brittle, the child cried, “Forgive me, _aranen_. I did not mean to call you!”

Thranduil tilted his head, considering, and let the moon caress his cheek. “A passing strange result, do you not think, to have called for aid and _accidentally_ summoned one’s king into the nightwood?”

But the child did not perceive Thranduil’s gentle teasing. Thranduil studied the _hên_ before him, who could have no more than a hundred summers. No taller than a dwarf, though more pleasing in appearance, with slender limbs, delicate fingers, and a proud bearing that shone through fear.

_No. not mere fear. Terror. This child is truly terrified. Who would do such a thing to one of my smallest subjects, abandoning them to the night like this?_

His kingly guardianship provoked, Thranduil swung down from Celegfang’s saddle and strode toward the elven child. Never having seen himself in full ire, Thranduil could have no idea of the effect of his valiant stride upon such a young and already distressed Eldar. As the velvet breeze lifted his silverflax mane from his shoulders, the moonlight danced along his budded crown, sparked in his icy gaze, and gilded his cheekbones. Eyes locked on the child, the king stripped his riding gloves from his long fingers. His cloak billowed back, revealing the king’s sheer, magnificent size and catlike grace. And, though he held no weapon, his intent shone from his eyes like lamps in the deepest caverns.

The child was entirely overcome with awe. With a whimper of submission, the russet-haired _hên_ dropped onto both knees, face hidden from view, and offered a single, open, trembling hand to the king.

Utmost submission.

Thranduil glided to a halt several paces from the child, chin high, dark brows low. The snowdrops on his crown seemed to glow in the moonlight, utterly still.

Such submission had its place on the battlefield in the face of overwhelming odds, or on the flagstones of the _edhel_ one had most wronged in the world. But such a gesture had been performed in Thranduil’s sight perhaps once every thousand years, no more.

To see a mere child offer complete submission to him, unasked, unprovoked, and unnecessary… It turned Thranduil’s stomach.

The sweet night air turned, carrying a slight breath of foulness.

The king straightened, took a breath, and began again, more calmly. “Have you a name, _hên_?”

“Nimuell, _aranen_.” The child did not look up.

“Nimuell, why do you submit so to me? I have earned no such debt repayment of you. Surely you are far too young to have sinned so greatly as to owe _anyone_ such a debt.”

Nimuell’s head ducked even further.

Losing patience, Thranduil was tempted to flood the poor child with the fullness of his Eldar senses, to draw the truth from wherever it hid. Instead, he glanced back toward Celegfang. “Very well, I accept your submission, until such time as I release you from it. Come here.” He raised a hand, and Celegfang walked peaceably to his side, allowing the king to detach the small bundle he had brought with him into the wood.

When Thranduil turned back, hands full of warm fabric, Nimuell had stepped out before him, head down, trembling with cold as well as other things. The king’s eyes perceived the child’s path through the melting snow from the sheltering alder. _Through_ the snow. Not atop it.

Wordlessly, the king spun the extra cloak, a gleaming white ramie lined with rabbit fur and chased with silver stags, around Nimuell’s shoulders. He hid his worry that the child should be so distraught as to stump through the chill _echuir_ slush like a Woodman, choosing to focus instead on fastening its silver clasp. “There. Now, up you go.” He reached for Nimuell’s waist and boosted the _hên_ ’s light weight atop Celegfang’s high saddle with no effort whatsoever. But Nimuell flinched at the king’s touch. Whimpered, as if injured.

Thranduil’s hands stilled, and his long, moonlit fingers lifted away from Nimuell’s person. His eyes glowed like river opals in the moonlight as he gazed up at his new rescue. In a voice soft and low, he queried, “Have I hurt you? Are you injured?” His desire for the truth warred with a fierce protectiveness that welled in his chest, and he clenched his teeth to keep from sieving Nimuell’s soul for the cause of all this distress.

Nimuell’s hand drew the king’s sumptuous cloak tightly, a silken armor. Russet hair shook in the negative. “You did not…” Soft cornflower eyes looked away, toward the alder where Nimuell had been hiding.

“ _I_ did not. But someone has done you injury.” It was not a question.

Nimuell’s lip trembled. Thranduil searched the nightwood for any sign of another and found only the trees, slumbering peacefully. But then, a new and terrible thing occurred, and Thranduil at last perceived the reason he had wakened and sought this desperate child. To his alarm and chagrin, some subtle spinning of Shadow spilled from the child’s spirit, thin and ribboned as if silken ink under pressure, escaping into the night from being contained too tightly.

 _Awarthannen_. I am forsaken. The child’s thought rippled past Thranduil’s mind and fled into the nightwood, too strong to be contained by fear.

Thranduil took a measured step back and studied Nimuell intently. How could a mere child be a vessel of Shadow? _Man rhulûth_ _sí tôl?_ What dark magic is this? The roar of the waterfall grew in his mind. A precipice lay ahead.

“Will you allow me to offer you healing, _hên_?” That Shadow could not be allowed to live. Not within his borders. Not after the protracted struggle to banish it, both before and after the Battle of the Five Armies. Slowly, Thranduil offered a hand, but did not reach more than halfway to the shivering child.

Just as well, since the tiny Eldar wrapped in the king’s white cloak shrank from his perceived touch and offered a silent shake of auburn tresses.

Thranduil’s reply was a graceful nod. “Then you shall return to my halls with me.” _And there, I will draw the Shadow from you and kill it._ Thranduil set a hand on Celegfang’s bridle and began to walk beside his faithful mount, leading the way back through the wood. Nimuell’s surprise and discomfiture washed over Thranduil. Yes, the Elvenking was indeed choosing to walk, giving his royal seat to another. Thranduil kept his head high, and his crown’s topmost points nearly matched Nimuell’s autumn-hued hair for height. Convention was just that: convention. And this night was proving anything but conventional.

The child had lashed out at him during their shared vision, and now exhibited a seeming fear of the king’s touch. Or of the king himself. Yet Thranduil could recall only rare sight of Nimuell in years past, and no occasion that would give reasonable expectation of such disastrous reaction to the sight of his person. Something was afoot in his realm. Something new and terrible. His war hackles rose, and his eyes lit with icy fire. But he twitched his rage away with a sharp glance. This was no time to cry havoc.

“You are hurt, and you are afraid,” Thranduil began. “I can think of no safer place for you than the halls of the Elvenking—” Thranduil paused, but received no exuberant acclaim. His lips pressed into a brief, flat line before he continued, “—where my personal guard will see to your safety and your every need.”

“Tauriel? Will… Tauriel be there?” Nimuell’s voice was a bare, shivering whisper.

Thranduil straightened his shoulders and resisted the urge to toss back his moon-blond tresses like the petulant thespian he knew himself capable of being. Who would love Tauriel more than their king? Perhaps it was a Silvan affectation. At the moment, however, it mattered not. “She will. I have already called her to await my return.”

“I… will be glad of _her_ company, _aranen_.”

Thranduil tried very, very hard not to be affronted. He smoothed a burgeoning grimace into a serene smile that would carry in his voice. “And she, no doubt, of yours. If you will not tell me of your distress, perhaps you will confide in my captain.”

Silence. Celegfang reached a stream and delicately plunged his hooves into its icy waters. Thranduil slid his gaze, and his perception, toward the elk’s tiny rider, then trod lightly atop the ripples from his elk’s steps until he reached the other side. To his disappointment, the child did not comment on Thranduil’s effortless skill, which he had painstakingly taught himself at a young age through sheer determination, and with no few icy dunkings. The king patiently held his tongue, and the trio made their way through monochrome displays of well-loved forest, limned by moonlight and misted by the stars.

When Celegfang crossed into a curving meadow whose edge kissed a sweep of gleaming, winter-bare white birches, Thranduil let out a satisfied sigh. Soon their branches would bud with firm, green catkins that would sway as dancers’ fingers in balmy breezes. “I will be glad of _ethuil_. The rising of life from the slumbering snows is a glorious event, do you not agree, Nimuell?”

“As you say, my king.”

The child’s noncommittal answer spurred Thranduil to turn and walk backwards alongside his elk. Celegfang studied the king with a placid eye, questioning his motives, but Thranduil gave the elk a sharp, if affectionate, look. Celegfang huffed a great breath into the chill night and returned to minding his business and watching his footing.

The Elvenking then applied himself to charming the child. With a voice of softest silk, fresh cream, and sprightly fireflies, he said, “I believe _ethuil_ is Tauriel’s favorite season. Perhaps you and I may spot some early signs of its approach as we travel together, and we may tell her of our discoveries when we arrive in my warm halls.” Bathed in moonlight, the king trod backward across the sleepy winter grass, flowing like a _fae en ithil_. Moon-spirit.

“Aside from those in your crown, _aranen_?”

The tiniest lilt in Nimuell’s voice brought a one-sided smile to Thranduil’s lips. He cast his eyes up toward the forward-most crocus bud in his crown, nestled just above his right ear. Its dark purple petals lay just in view. His bright gaze shifted smoothly to Nimuell. “You have seen others in the wood?”

“No, my king, not in the wood. In the garden I tend.”

The king’s eyes sparked with interest. “You are a flower shepherder.”

“ _Ná, aranen_. I tend them with my host family. They are…” The child’s voice broke without warning. “They are for trade,” was the finishing whisper. Misery swooped from Nimuell’s shoulders like the dark wings of a crow, swaddling the child in a private pain.

Thranduil instinctively reached for Nimuell’s hand, resting atop Celegfang’s pommel, but the child twitched back within the warm folds of Thranduil’s white cloak. To the king’s eyes, a fresh flow of Shadow spilled from the trembling _hên_. Though much of the inky darkness trailed forgotten to the ground and dissipated, a few tendrils wrapped Nimuell more tightly as if binding the child in place. Other tendrils feebly attempted to infiltrate Thranduil’s exposed palm. He killed them with a flash of affront and a sharp crack of his will.

“I will see you safe, _tithelloth._ ” Little flower. “I give you my word.”

Silence.

With no small offense, Thranduil turned to walk forward again _. The_ hên _does not_ believe _me. How can anyone dare to disbelieve the solemn word of their king? Was Legolas so fractious at this age? My son has his flaws, but I cannot recall such impudence._ He gathered his cloak around him and lifted his chin. _Surely there must be great cause behind it._

As the palest light of dawn pushed back the cloak of night overhead, dimming the moon’s glory and streaking the sky with petal pink and glimmering gold, a stone bridge hove into view, arching delicately above a light and laughing river that swelled with snowmelt. Four guards waited impatiently outside the closed gates for their king’s return. Thranduil smiled at the sight. “We are arrived.”


	2. The Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil attempts to get to the bottom of Nimuell's secret, and it costs him.

The gates of the Elvenking’s Halls swung open at that moment, and Tauriel stalked out onto the bridge. On the eve of her fourteen-hundredth year, Tauriel had blossomed into the fullness of her rangy Silvan grace. No corner of the forest held secrets from her, and no fell creature could overpower her skills with bow and blade. Her long auburn locks swayed behind her in a fall of lissome readiness. Yet she radiated impatience and concern. Radiated it _at_ Thranduil. _Intentionally_.

Despite the presumptuous rudeness of his _most loyal_ and _faithful_ Captain of the Guard—for so she described herself to him with mirthful amusement whenever she felt he required, Valar forfend _,_ a second _opinion_ —Thranduil replied to Tauriel with the gentle calm of kittens snoozing in a patch of weaving-room sunlight. He had not intended to be away so long, and so she had cause for her concern. “ _Mae g'ovannen_ , Tauriel.”

“And what sort of hour does my lord call this?” Tauriel set the kitten-warmth aside and put a hand on her sword. Her eyes scanned the forest behind her king, seeking explanation for his tardiness.

Thranduil paused in the middle of the bridge with her and lifted his merry eyes to the vault of the sky. “I am not certain if the Silvan elves have a secret word for it, Tauriel, but among the Sindar, it is commonly referred to as ‘dawn’.” His eyes twinkled at her, and her lips twitched in exasperation. Then his face sobered. “I have a charge for you, Captain.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“This child needs comfort and food. Perhaps you may persuade forth the story that has thus far curled behind closed lips, away from the ears of the king.”

Tauriel’s sharp eyes flickered to the little figure garbed in the king’s cloak, sat astride atop the great elk. “Of… course… my lord.” She reached for Celegfang’s reins, and Thranduil placed them firmly in her grip. His starry eyes spoke of warnings and delicate handling. Then he brushed past her, cloak aflutter, his long stride carrying him across the bridge and the threshold of his hall.

Tauriel exchanged a glance with the child in her care. “Your name, child?”

“Nimuell, my captain.” The child’s chest heaved with emotion, and though Tauriel could not perceive its formulation as succinctly as her king, she recognized waves of relief and pain, intertwined.

Her gaze flickered after the king, then back to Nimuell. Something amiss tugged at her mind, but she had never felt its like. She had nephews and nieces, though, and knew of a swift way to procure cooperation from the unwilling.

“Are you hungry?”

 

***

 

Somewhat strained from his early morning jaunt beside a child bearing Shadow, Thranduil sought nothing more than a few minutes to rest, to redress the wrongs done to his attire in the chill and damp of the nightwood, and perhaps to enjoy some fortifying tea. It was not to be, however.

Several members of his court had awakened to find him gone, and were awaiting his presence in the throne hall. As they accosted him in the colonnade aside the throne hall, all graceful bows and soft words, their easy postures and warm hands spoke of full rest and a lack of nocturnal wood-strolling. Their voices as they wished him a good morrow in the bore no trace of having breathed frosty air for several hours.

With the barest nod of acknowledgment, Thranduil tacked to the right, his sleeved cloak a silver ship at full sail, trailing similarly adorned vessels, each bearing a problem only he could solve.

 _Apparently_.

The great hall spread full away from him, its vastness buoyant with warmth, delicate shafts of light, and songful space. Organic paths twined their way here and there across the hall. He took the one that led most directly to the receiving round that lay before his throne, the better to leave his nobles below and ascend above their small concerns.

He would vastly prefer to wrestle with the larger one that had accosted him in the nightwood. The Shadow stalked his realm again. But they would whine if he simply stalked away. And Thranduil and his courtiers had come to an agreement, after the last incident, that he would listen promptly, and they would maintain a respectful tone with their requests. There would be no more need to raise an impatient courtier’s voice to the eardrum-shatteringly high register of a Chithaeglir cave bat for the rest of the day. Once had done the trick.

But to keep to his side of the bargain, Thranduil reluctantly set aside the mystery of young Nimuell, twitched his sweeping silver cloak aside, and ascended the steps to his antler-adorned throne. Wishing Tauriel all speed in learning what had so greatly troubled Nimuell, he seated himself above those who sought audience, shifted to one side of his throne’s seat, and crossed his legs, letting his damp boot toe display tiny fragments of melting snow, moss, and last _iavas_ ’s browned leaves.

His petitioners’ eyes fell as one to the toe of his high black boot. A ripple of consternation flowed through the waiting elves, whose clothing and hairstyles reflected an even mix of Silvan and Sindarin heritage. The king had indeed been out and about, and at such an early hour. The Elvenking, abroad in the night, with his own matters to attend to. What might such action portend?

 _What, indeed?_ Curiosity tugged at Thranduil’s mind like the flicker of a firefly in the nightwood. But no. He must hold court instead. With a restrained sigh, Thranduil’s careless yet graceful gesture invited the first of his petitioners to speak.

Lord Gellon stepped forward with a sway of violet brocade and dark hair and opened his mouth.

“My lord,” called Tauriel, from the walkway behind the courtiers.

Thranduil sat up straighter in interest and absent-mindedly gestured for Lord Gellon to hush. “Approach, Captain.”

As she made her way through the courtiers’ midst, Thranduil realized she was shepherding Nimuell before her, a Silvan elf in miniature, now sans Thranduil’s white cloak. Tiny rumples and bark fragments upon Nimuell’s soft green tunic and leggings bore witness to a panicked flight into the wood last night, but the child’s small hands clasped a wooden bowl fit for Celegfang’s supper. Bread, cheeses, and spiced meats filled it to the brim, and Nimuell was busy inhaling an entire specimen of Thranduil’s personal store of fresh apricots. The king’s lips released a nearly silent _tsk_.

Tauriel escorted Nimuell front and center amid the courtiers. “Our new charge has no interest in being escorted into any form of side chamber, my lord,” she reported, “let alone storytelling.”

A slyness hovering around the edges of her straightforward report impressed upon Thranduil prood that the decision to offer Nimuell the king’s especial fruits had been _deliberate_. He held her gaze with his wide blue eyes and turned his head a fraction, warning her that her trifling merriment had a place, but this was not it.

His captain radiated faint chagrin, but she smoothly continued, “Would it be acceptable to you, my most gracious lord, if Nimuell ate here in your presence? The story you seek may yet forthcome. It is likely that you have formed some bond through your travels.”

“Is it?” The king’s eye fell to the child who stood below him in the center of his receiving round, bowl in one hand, fleshy apricot in the other, cheek stuffed with too large a bite, cornflower eyes wide. Nobles in their morning finery spread behind Nimuell in a mockery of an entourage.

Slowly and with great moment, the Elvenking placed his hands on the arms of his throne and rose to his feet, towering over all below. His cloak draped from his shoulders as a ravening shadow even as the earliest light of dawn shone through _hâlgalad_ circlets overhead, bestowing upon him a cascading benison of sunlight. The burgeoning rays lit in the king’s eyes a rare blue fire and caressed his budded crown with a coruscating diadem of light.

“Have we indeed formed a bond, _tithelloth_?” Thranduil’s voice was soft, but it filled the throne hall. The Elvenking, graceful and powerful as Celegfang, towering as the pines, beautiful as a wildwater cataract in full flood, a shining jewel of Sindarin perfection, was everywhere at once.

Nimuell flinched.

The bowl clattered to the smooth wood of the round and shattered, spilling pottery fragments and rolling fat apricots in all directions.

Tauriel clasped Nimuell’s shaking shoulders and shot an alarmed look up at her king.

The nobles murmured, some impatiently, some in curiosity.

Thranduil’s breath caught, and a shiver of foreboding flashed across his skin, prickling it. The waterfall in his mind roared. Its sudden fall was nearly upon him. A high voice barely reached his ears over the monstrous roar of the falls.

 _Elio… Cân fae nín… Elionin!”_ Help… My spirit calls… Help me!

The king’s spine shivered. “Everyone out.” He began to descend, his cloak billowing behind him.

“Majesty?” Lord Gillon dared to sputter.

Thranduil gestured toward the distant arch with a graceful yet imperious flick of the wrist. “I want this throne hall empty. _Si_. _Ego!_ ” Now. Begone!

The nobles bowed and retreated with admirable haste. Tauriel offered her king a hard look as she began to turn Nimuell away.

“ _Úd_.” Not you two. He gentled his voice. “Stay.” Thranduil reached the bottom of the steps and paused. Tauriel seemed to be holding Nimuell together in one piece, so firmly did she grasp the child’s shoulders. At their feet lay the broken bowl and its scattered contents. Thranduil’s eye fell on the pottery shards, the spilled food. The realization struck that he had just shooed everyone away. Including his servants.

A measured sigh escaped his lips. Then he divested himself of his heavy cloak, tossing it back onto the steps without a backward glance. Its silken weight spread across the stairs, exposing its catkin-green lining as if spring itself were peeping into the king’s throne chamber through a silken rustle of fog.

A roll of his broad shoulders flexed the ramie fabric of his berry-bright tunic until it winked in the dawn light. With utmost grace, as if he tended the most precious garden in his realm, the Elvenking knelt and began to gather the fragments of ancient, glazed pottery. His budded crown bent, and his sunlit, silken hair nearly swept the millennia-smoothed wood of the round. His long fingers retrieved piece after piece of the bowl’s shattered edges. He placed them aside the bowl’s flat bottom, which remained nearly whole and still held one perfect apricot, entirely unharmed.

“My lord,” Tauriel whispered, as if so aghast at the king’s lowly actions that she could not find her full voice.

Thranduil’s smile carried in his voice, a warm whisper of spring in a brisk breeze. “Did you wish this apricot, Tauriel? Do I not feed you well enough?”

A tiny spark of laughter escaped Nimuell’s lips. The bobbing snowdrops on Thranduil’s crown twitched upward, and the king’s liquid sapphire gaze landed on the _hên_ ’s face. Smilingly, Thranduil offered the plump fruit to his guest. “Tauriel knows where the kitchens are. If she is truly famished, she may take herself hence and fetch another. _This_ time, with my blessing.”

After an eternal moment, during which Thranduil wondered if time had stopped entire, Nimuell accepted his gift. But the child shot an inquiring glance at Tauriel before taking a bite. Thranduil observed closely as she gave a nod of gentle encouragement. Nimuell had indeed formed a bond. But it was not with Thranduil.

The Elvenking’s pride was pricked. _Surely, twixt Tauriel and myself, anyone would choose the king._ I _would choose me. Is this the work of the Shadow, then? Driving my people from me?_

He stilled his pride swiftly, though, for he knew his days would be darker without Tauriel serving loyally—if saucily—at his side. “ _Av-'osto_ , Nimuell. There is nothing to fear here in my halls.”

A sudden hammering of childlike grace pressed against Thranduil’s mind, an insistent pounding, as if from a carpenter sounding a roof for sturdiness. Thranduil could have crushed the child’s questing magic, deceived it even, but he had no cause to. He waited patiently as Nimuell staccatoed his way around the edges of Thranduil’s mind.

When his examination had concluded, Thranduil commented lightly, “You are strong, _tithelloth_. Your flowers must grow all the more lovely for your attentions.” Forestalling any interruptions on Tauriel’s part, Thranduil sank back until he sat atop his heels—nearly eye level with Nimuell—and lifted his budded crown from his shining hair. “Would you like to examine it? I think you will recognize some of the magic it bears.” He offered the little Eldar the crown of the Elvenking.

Tauriel’s eyes flickered from the crown to her king, to the child, and back to the crown. A press of patience from Thranduil’s mind gave her leave to relax. _We must all step forward on our own someday, Tauriel,_ he told her.

Nimuell did step forward from Tauriel’s hands. The child’s delicate fingers accepted the sweeping crown and lifted it to eye level. Cornflower eyes studied the crown as if reading a fascinating text. Thranduil felt the rush of joy that filled his young charge, felt the Shadow squirm and retreat.

 _Annathan ‘wanathgen_ , Thranduil promised it. I will kill you.

It flared thick and black, pulsing, larger than he had realized. _Oropher’s spawn, rash princeling of Mirkwood, you hold no sway over the milk-threaded hearts of such mewling kits as this. You shall all perish as the Shadow consumes you. And you, Thranduil Kinbane, shall see our shape o’ershadow your land, and yet you shall only weep in despair at our approach. None shall stand before us. You are nothing. You. Are._ Prey.

Kinbane. The moniker _hurt_ , all the more for its accuracy. He had watched his father, Oropher, cut down by Sauron’s forces at the Battle of Dagorlad. His wife had been slain in Gundabad before he could reach her. Legolas, his pride and joy, had fled his lands and was the better for it.

Kinbane. Yet he had raised Tauriel after her parents were killed, and she had not left him. Every single elf within his borders, he considered his family. That included Nimuell.

Angered by the Shadow’s swift and vicious taunts, so loud within his mind, Thranduil struck back. _Which is it, then? Nothing? Or prey? How embarrassing for you not to have made up your mind before trying to threaten me in my own halls. Begone, foul shade!_

A nasty phrase clawed its way deep into Thranduil’s mind and embedded itself in the meat of his brain, causing him to grimace in pain. The Black Speech phrase that loosely translated as “Make me” rang his skull like a gong.

Tauriel noted his reaction. “Are you well, my lord?”

He dismissed her concerns with a slight shiver of moon-bright hair. “As well as can be. And you, Nimuell? Have you any thoughts concerning my crown?”

“Is it true…” The child hesitated, lower lip eager to ask despite all, “is it true that your crown changes with the seasons?”

“’My king’,” supplied Tauriel, but Thranduil waved away her formality.

“It is true,” he said. “In _rhîw_ I strode about holly-crowned. My head was sharp of leaf and bright of berry, and winter ivy knitted all in place. In the very coldest days, these high wildbrier tips were all a-frost, and I had to take care that icicles did not drip about my ears.”

Nimuell smiled, unsure whether the king was being fanciful. Tauriel added smilingly, “I do seem to recall one particularly cold day when you demanded that your guard follow you about with absorbent cloths, my lord?”

Thranduil met his captain’s eyes with merriment and a sliver of defensiveness. “I believe ‘demand’ is too strong a word for my most reasonable request.”

“These are your _echuir_ flowers? My king?” Nimuell added hastily. “They are nearly quickened.”

“I feel the life rising in them every hour. They will be glorious when they spread their petals. The snowdrops may be the purest of _echuir_ ’s blooms, but I cherish the bold purple of the crocuses.”

“ _Ná, aranen_. The contrast is more pleasing against the paleness of the snow. And your hair.” Nimuell’s eyes were busy studying the fattest purple crocus bud and did not see the smiling glance Thranduil shared with Tauriel.

“Exactly so,” Thranduil murmured. “You are a gardener after the king’s own heart.”

Nimuell flinched again, prompting Thranduil to reach forward in case the child stumbled. Nimuell clung to the crown, and its buds shivered as if in a winter gale.

Thranduil kept his eyes on Nimuell’s and pressed a hand to his hollyberry tunic, over his heart. “After _my_ own heart, Nimuell. I am but an elf, as you are, and Tauriel. I shall not harm you.”

The _hên_ thrust the Elvenking’s crown back to Thranduil. “I ache to believe you, _aranen_. Truly.”

Thranduil held up one hand to forestall Tauriel’s sharp question and received back his crown with the other. “Yet you cannot?” Nimuell’s auburn head shivered in the negative as Thranduil settled his crown around his own head once more. “Then we are at an impasse. For if you refuse to tell me the matter at hand, that weighty issue for which you ‘accidentally’ summoned me from my bed in the deep of the night, then… _úbuion_.” I cannot serve you.

The child blinked at him in confusion. “ _Buiol_ nin _?_ ” You, serve _me_?

An amused smile graced the king’s lips. “How did you frame me in your mind, _hên_ , that you did not comprehend my greatest purpose? The Silvan elves of Greenwood the Great chose my father, Oropher, to rule them. He spent the rest of his long years taking the greatest care for his adopted people, and he gave his very life in defense of them.” _Against the Shadow_. “It is my highest honor and my deepest privilege to take up my father’s calling and guard the people of Eryn Lasgalen against all ills. Against _all_ ills.”

To Thranduil’s surprise, Nimuell’s knees crashed to the wooden floor before the king. Tiny arms flung themselves around his waist. A small, keening voice, echoing straight out of his Foretellings, whimpered against the holly-red of his tunic, “ _Edraith enni, aranen raen. A eliolnin_.” Save me, gracious king, Oh, help me.

Moved beyond words by the tiny, desperate cling of a child in deepest distress, Thranduil wrapped a long arm around the child’s shoulders and caressed Nimuell’s russet locks with his strong fingers. “ _Áva sorya_ , _tithelloth_. It is my duty, and my joy, to serve you. Will you tell me, now, what you would not say when we met in the nightwood?”

But the child only burrowed further against Thranduil’s tunic. “I do not wish to give it voice, _aranen_. Can you not see it for me?”

The shadow pulsed within Nimuell’s chest, mocking, but Thranduil refused to let go of his tiny charge. “I can, if you are sure you wish me to see. For I will see it as you did.”

Nimuell whimpered, then nodded against Thranduil’s tunic. “And if you see fit to kill me after you have seen, _aranen_ , I will be content.”

“What?” Tauriel blurted. “No, Nimuell. Our good king would _never_ —”

She cut off as Thranduil raised his hand. “Why in the wide forest would I do that?”

Nimuell gazed up sharply, as if warning the king of what was to come. “It is darkness, _aranen_.”

Thranduil did Nimuell the honor of holding that blue gaze for a long moment. Finally, the king gave a short nod. “Very well. If I see fit. You submitted to me in the nightwood. Your life is already mine.”

“ _Ná, aranen_.” Trembling but exhausted, worn down and aching, Nimuell sat back on chilly heels and awaited the king’s judgment.

Thranduil cupped the child’s delicate face in his hands as they knelt knee to knee. “ _Av-'osto_ , Nimuell. _Av-'osto_.”

But Nimuell was very much afraid.

As Thranduil met the child’s eyes, he delved into the fractured, invaded soul within the tiny Eldar. In pain and confusion, Nimuell’s soul rang like a broken bell. Thranduil soothed Nimuell with a gentle song of flowers nodding by a stream and imagined himself pacing slowly down a long, dark corridor within the child’s mind. How long the corridor was did not matter. Only what lay at the end. And it would only end when Nimuell wished it to. So Thranduil strode amid shadowed memories, letting them pass him by, serenading the poor, wilting _tithelloth_ whose face he cradled.

Tears leaked from Nimuell’s eyes and trickled past Thranduil’s fingers. Within Nimuell’s mind, the king asked,  _Shall I stop? Is it too much?_

In response, Nimuell’s head shook faintly against Thranduil’s hands. The king resumed his stride. A high keening reached his ears, echoing down the corridor from his destination. Heat reached him as well, faintly at first, then with radiant waves. Growls and roars, like those of monstrous beasts, filled his ears.

Instinctively, Thranduil called to him his silver armor, battle cloak, and sword. Whatever lay ahead, he had never known its like, and the siren call of the unknown tore at his patience.

The keen came again, louder: “ _Elio! Elionin_!” Help me!

With a low growl of his own, Thranduil dashed forward, unable to pace himself any further. Time seemed to vanish. Eternity was no more, and thus patience remained no longer a virtue. The Elvenking flung himself into the vault of chaos that awaited him within Nimuell’s mind, sword flashing.

Within the memories of the tiny Eldar he had rescued in the night, the roar of untamed waters overcame him, and Thranduil Oropherion was swept over the waterfall’s precipice.

Eyes wide, Thranduil could not look away from Nimuell’s face as he relived the child’s memories for himself.

His pupils pinpricked.

The Shadow struck.

In terrible concert, every flower, every stem, every scrap of green in the king’s budded _echuir_ crown blackened to ash and fell at once.


	3. Kingly Aspects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is so shaken by what he experiences inside Nimuell's memories that he retreats to seek counsel from the wisest people he knows: himselves. It does not go exactly as he would like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has allusion to sexual abuse.

“My lord? My lord Thranduil!” Tauriel’s voice reached Thranduil’s ears at a great distance.

Nimuell’s voice, too. “I am so sorry. Please, forgive me. I did not mean to! Surely he will kill me now?”

_The child is yet unharmed. Good._

Yet the world swirled, muted and fogged, just beyond Thranduil’s perception. A shadow, a _Shadow_ , lurked in the fog as well. He could not quite see his way back to where his body knelt. But he would not return to it until he knew the Shadow would not follow.

 _Ah, Valar_ , he prayed, wrestling for control of his own mind. _Let my grace embrace me fully, else I be lost to the Shadow, and this child as well_. The shock of the Shadow’s savagery had already killed the flowers in his crown and laden his glorious hair with powdery black ash. What more might it do, if he could not control it? If he could not _kill_ it?

A figure strode through the swirling mists in gleaming breastplate, with silver sword and battle diadem crowning moonlit tresses. “You know what you must do. Do not hesitate!” The very mirror of the king swung his sword in a gleaming blur, slashing at Shadow tendrils that reached in from all sides, forcing them back, buying time.

Thranduil beheld himself, garbed for war, fighting for the Light. _Priorities, yes_.

Another Elvenking stepped through the mist, cradling an infant Legolas. This Thranduil wore no crown, only a fine silver tunic and leggings, and smiled peaceably when his precious child tugged playfully on a tiny fistful of moonlit hair. The eyes he raised to the ash-haired Thranduil were content, loving. “Life is to be protected, yes. But first, it must be loved. Fight for love, Thranduil.”

_Ever have I done so. May the Shadow take me if I turn coat. And I have such fine coats._

A third figure, much shorter, made his way through the mist but slowly, seeming lost.

Thranduil’s chest seized, and he tried to look away, but found that could not. The sword strikes of his battle self rang too loudly in the background as he braced against the child’s presence. _No, not you. Please._

The young _edhel_ turned to Thranduil with identical blue eyes, starry and wide. “It hurts.”

Thranduil braced a strong hand against his diaphragm, for his breath had fallen short. _It was_ not you _in the memories._

“It _was_ me. I am the Thranduil that lived them. Please, it hurts. _Narchannenin_.” I have been broken. “Help me.”

Red marks flared on the prince’s arms. Bruises rose on his back. Unwanted, ash-Thranduil felt the sting of wrenched flesh beneath his own clothing. The cruel, teasing kisses that had followed. The smiling Sindar face that had hovered over him, holding him down, taking pleasure in his pain. No wonder Nimuell had feared the sight of the king, and even his smallest touch. _A Sindar, fair and smiling. All my attempts to soothe were but wretched reminders of this accursed torture!_

The king reached for his child-self’s small hands and clasped them. _You were betrayed and much used. No child should learn of such hurts, for they have no place in the world._

The young prince’s sharp blue eyes shimmered up at him. “How do we save Nimuell? How do we save _me_?”

The pain returned, sharp and tearing. The worming fear, the hot tears. Thranduil clenched his teeth against the invasive memories, but the face of his betrayer shone as clearly as those of his dearest ones. His heart roared with rage, and his lips seethed with curses. _I will flay that one alive. Slowly. Publicly. How_ dare _he touch an innocent so?_

“Stop!” Armored Thranduil checked his shoulder against the king’s, shoving him back down. He had not realized he was rising in his rage. “Do not lose yourself in the fullness of your anger. Well you remember what horrors befell you last time.”

As one, all eyes turned toward the mist. Thranduil’s breath caught in his throat, his rage swirling with regret. With fear. _No_.

One last figure, whose footsteps presaged dread, pressed through the cloud that ringed the king’s mind, and Thranduil gritted his teeth, leaning forward, hating and yet needing this long-hidden aspect of himself. _What say you, then, specter? Another bloody victory for the Elvenking?_

The ancient aspect of the Elvenking stepped into view. His boots were scorched antiques. His midnight cloak hung rent and crisped. His sword dripped with the acidic black blood of a Northern firedrake. Fiery scars marked one side of his face and whitened one eye as if he bore a pearl in its socket. The apparition’s lips stretched in an identical grimace to that on Thranduil’s face, and he pointed to the ash-haired Thranduil with his bloodied sword. “Vengeance does not kill the Shadow. It spawns it.” The words slurred past his scars. “This, you know. This, you have lived.”

Thranduil’s raging ire swirled, challenged—and melted away into a depthless sorrow that weighted his bones. His eyes settled, finally, on his young self, whose brows drew together in worry and pain, who clasped his small hands in hope. _Then how?_ he asked his dragonslayer aspect _. How do I destroy this Shadow?_

The vengeful king turned his good eye upon the triumphant conqueror, the gentle father, and the hurt child. A nod to each, and he turned his back, stepping into the fog once more. “I strode too far, past the greatest Light I have ever borne, and yon into Deepest Darkness. Find your own path. Do not take mine.”

“Swiftly, else the Shadow will gain a hold!” Thranduil’s armored counterpart still defended against dark tendrils. They darted in insistently, seeking to taint the king as they had the child.

“My voice may be small, but it will grow to become your voice, my king. Do not turn from me,” child-Thranduil said. “ _I_ will not turn from Nimuell.”

The uncrowned Thranduil snuggled his infant close upon his chest. “Remember, Thranduil, for whom you fight. What did your father leave you? What will you leave for Nimuell, for Legolas? Choose well.”

Thranduil lifted his chin. His eyes burned with blue fire. All the voices in his head coalesced, weaved, until only his own remained. “I have chosen. Let this end.”

His aspects faded from his mind. Thranduil pressed his eyes shut and forced a wave of pure Light from within him. Its intensity devoured the flickering Shadow that spun around him, dissolving it. Gasping with the effort, the king opened his eyes.

He still knelt in his receiving round. Nimuell cowered before him. Tauriel crouched beside them both, a hand on each of their shoulders. Her searching eyes met his with glad relief.

“My lord, you are returned to us! _Egleria!_ ” I give praise. “Are you well? You stared as if sleepwalking for a time.”

“And your crown…” Nimuell added. “I have broken its glory and killed its flowers. Please, _aranen_ , I did not mean to. I understand if you wish to take my life as recompense.”

Thranduil took in the sight of the brave _hên_ who still knelt before him, even under threat of the king’s wrath. His large hands cradled Nimuell’s face, and tears edged his eyes. “My _tithelloth_ , my dearest heart. In accepting your submission in the nightwood, I own your life only to guard it from further hurts! I would never take your life from you! I did not know. I did not understand. You are stronger than you know, to bear such a burden alone. Yet, now I bear it with you. You are alone no longer.”

Nimuell’s eyes lingered on the king’s bare crown. “But your flowers, my king. I killed them.”

Thranduil managed a hopeful smile. “ _Av-'osto_ , they will return. All things rise from the snows of winter.”

Doubt clouded those cornflower eyes. “Are you certain, _aranen_?”

Thranduil leaned forward and bestowed a soft kiss upon Nimuell’s auburn head. “Yes,” he murmured. “I am certain. Because I am the gardener, and Eryn Lasgalen is my garden.” His gaze sharpened to a swordpoint as he raised his eyes to Tauriel. “I have a certain weed to uproot.”

Tauriel’s face tightened, and she nodded, standing ready for further orders.

Thranduil returned his gaze to the child kneeling before him. He sat back, hands on his thighs, and tilted his head with a cool smile.  “I shall pluck the Shadow from its rooting place and hurl it from my realm forever. Will you stay with me when I do so?”

Nimuell squirmed a bit. “Will it hurt?”

The king’s reply was a breath of promise. “I will never hurt you, nor allow another to do so. Let me soothe the hurts you carry even now.” He held his hands out halfway, as he had done in the nightwood.

It was humbling how quickly Nimuell leaned into Thranduil’s touch. The king sent a soothing flush of magic through the child’s slender body, easing pains within and without, washing away the terror and betrayal. Though he recalled every mark and tear Nimuell had suffered as if he suffered them himself, seeing the young Eldar relax under his touch offered the king much-needed solace.

“There. I am gratified by your trust in me, Nimuell. It only took me most of the night to earn it!” Thranduil’s teasing smile was matched by Nimuell’s shy one. “It much gladdens me to see you faring more brightly.”

Nimuell took a deep breath as if testing new strength. “I am much recovered, my king. Though I still remember.”

Thranduil leaned into his senses. A small, thick bubble of stubborn Shadow still lurked within the child’s heart. “You may yet choose to forget. But let us take a moment to gird ourselves first.” The king flowed to his feet, a towering force of movement and life, and offered Nimuell a hand up. “We have a weed to pull. And I refuse to do battle with a mere weed while looking thusly disheveled.” He trailed one languid finger against the fall of his ashy hair. “Tauriel, while I prepare, ready your guards for a retrieval mission. I shall send you the name of your target as soon as you have escorted Nimuell to the kitchens for some more apricots, and then perhaps for some tidier garments.”

Nimuell tugged ineffectually at a persistent tunic wrinkle, looking sheepish.

Tauriel’s eyes sparked with readiness. “As my king commands.”

Thranduil waited in his receiving round until she had escorted Nimuell away. Alone in the midst of his halls, he lifted his crown from his head and beheld its ruin. He had destroyed the questing Shadow, yes. But it had invaded his grace, cursed the growth of his crown, and now clung to the shining glory of his hair, tainting and saturating it. The memories of the twisted hurts done to Nimuell seemed to coil near his ears and breathe their oily mutterings on his neck. He felt filthy.

Thranduil lifted his head and strode toward his chambers.

He was in desperate need of a bath.


	4. The Cleansing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a king gotta do to get clean around here, before he goes out and kicks some evil ass? 
> 
> If you were low-key waiting for the Bathing Chapter, this is it. Thranduil heartily consents to your voyeurism. He has very little in the way of shame--certainly none in this chapter--and I have none whatsoever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I gotta warn you in advance, I make a Sindarin dick pun in this chapter, and I'm not even sorry a little bit. Tolkien can roll his eyes at me all he likes, but I think he'd chuckle to himself once everyone else left the room. So, gwaith is the Sindarin term for "host, manpower," and even "wilderness" and "region." But it can also mean "manhood." Yeah. I'm saying Thranduil has Big Dick Energy. My unrepentant laughter and I will be over in the corner if you need us.

Thranduil’s bare wildbrier crown rested upon a crisp linen cloth and rode on a silver platter borne by one of two dozen white-clad servants. The linen cloth served as a protective layer, lest the smallest ashen fragment stain the ritually cleansed bathing chamber. The king would first cleanse himself of the Shadow’s taint, and only then would he purify his crown.

The sacred purification pool lay on the eastern edge of the Elvenking’s halls, where plenty of morning light cascaded down from above. The round pool’s smooth edges bore the march of delicately fired tiling, impressed with prayer sigils and glazed in hues of blue and white. Its cool water lay placidly, awaiting Thranduil’s immersion.

In the strong rays of midmorning, four elves lightly lifted the king’s berry-bright tunic from his shoulders. He stepped forward toward the sacred pool with graceful intent so as not to shiver loose any of the dark ash that stained his silverflax hair as it lay upon his shoulders. Behind him, two more servants brought forth a brazier. It hung suspended in the middle of a bronze pole that rested atop their shoulders. Two of the elves holding the scarlet tunic gingerly folded it and placed it on the fire. The other two chased the fabric into the flames with blessed herbs that smoked with curling white ribbons.

A pair of waiting menservants knelt and divested the king of his high boots. They handed them off and followed with the king’s leggings, all of which followed the tunic into the cleansing fire. Pure white smoke spiraled toward the vaulted arches as the king, bare as a willow whip, dipped his long, slender foot into the clear eye of the pool.

A dozen servants crouched at the edge of the sacred waters, attentively holding purifying soaps, brushes, and the like. In concert, they sang a gentle song of purification. Their voices, high and low alike, echoed sweetly from the high vaults above, and their healing intent lifted the king’s heart.

He eased deeper into the pool. Its cool waters surrounded his strong calves, swished about his thighs in the gleaming light. He let his fingers play over the surface of the ripples that his entry caused. He had had little cause to use the purification pool these last few years, but this day he was fiercely glad of it. Another step, and his foot caressed the glossy floor. The sway of the water caressed his buttocks and teased his _gwaith_ , and he moved languorously to the center of the pool.

Raising his arms, his chest taut with firm muscle and glinting with water drops, Thranduil closed his eyes, tipped up his face, and murmured, “ _Ai, Valar, goheno nin_.” Hail, Valar, forgive me. “The Shadow has touched me, and until I am cleansed, I am not fit to lead, nor rule.” The king’s blue eyes pierced the vaults above. “Let me be purified in your sight and with your blessing. Let me once again stand worthy of the Light, in the eyes of my people, and in yours.”

Thranduil lowered his head until he met the eyes of a maiden who crouched directly before him at the edge of the pool, bearing a heavy jug of sacred oil. He held her gaze as his chest swelled with a deep breath. Then he dipped his chin and sank beneath the clear waters. His ashen hair, stained with charcoal below the level of his crown, floated on the surface, shedding its blackening. Reluctantly, the tainted black powder separated from the king’s moon-bright locks, for it could not sink into the sacred pool with him. Its night-hued fragments spiraled across the surface like pepper grounds that drank the light.

The oil bearer upended her jug, spilling fragrant oil atop the pool’s still water. Another pair of oil bearers followed suit at tripoints around the pool, emptying their charges atop the sacred waters. When they had finished, they stood and stepped away. The other servants shifted back as well.

One servant bore forth a sparking torch and touched its light to the oil that coated the sacred pool. With a hungry roar, the oil caught, and a roiling plume of pure white smoke, thick and fragrant, billowed up.

Below the water, Thranduil smiled at the fervent heat that radiated down upon his back. His shadow rippled upon the slick tiles beneath his toes and fingertips. Bubbles escaped his lips and caught against his hair, lifting coiling tresses toward the heat, and the waters swirled around him, trailing past his skin with delighted fingers.

Above him, the Shadow burned.

In his chest, his heart burned.

 _Annathan ‘wanathgen._ I will kill you.

Long minutes passed as the oil burned cleanly away, taking every trace of the ashen, Shadowed flowers with it, transforming Thranduil’s shock and horror into blessed grace and Light. Within the haven of the pool, the king felt himself restored. Cleansed.

_Annathan ‘wanathgen._

When the surface of the pool rested, sending kisses of fresh steam into the air, Thranduil gathered himself and rose through the waters. His silverflax hair clung to his skin like moonlight and silk. Water channeled down his chest and back in laughing freshets. Sunlight caressed his cheeks, the hard planes of his shoulders, the low curve of his back.

One long arm reached forth, and a singing servant set in his waiting fingers a soft dollop of purifying soap dotted with small blue petals and dried herbs.

Thranduil brought the soap to a lather between his palms and ran his fingers through his hair, easing it back from his face, sliding its silken length through his fingers again and again. He tucked his fingers into the long locks of his nape and smoothed them upward, then swirled them across the crown of his head. With his other hand, he drew his pale mane back from his high forehead and sluiced the thick tresses with soap until they were drenched with foaming bubbles and studded with tiny blue petals. Slow falls of thick froth eased their way down the nape of his neck and trailed down his muscled back, all the way to the waters below. Bubbling foam slid past the taut curve of his jaw, behind his ear, and down across his chest. He worked his fingers up into his hair again and again, dragging them across his scalp, and his eyes drifted shut with bright pleasure at the simple sensation of _clean_.

As the room echoed with blessed melodies, Thranduil slipped beneath the surface once again and dipped his head forward, swirling water through his thick moon-bright locks. With a slow, underwater flourish, he brought his head back around and stood, his high forehead breaking the surface first. As water cascaded from his well-muscled form, the warming light limned his body as if he were alabaster grace given breath. His chest lifted and broadened with just such a breath, and as the air slipped past his lips, he tipped his head forward and closed his eyes. “It is done. Attend me now, for I must be about the work of the Light.”

As one, every servant slipped into the pool around the king, holding natural sponges, soaps, combs, and soothing oils. Thranduil tipped back his head and let his people ritually prepare him for his battle with the Shadow.

With every inch of him clean and smooth, the king ascended from the pool. Half a dozen elves delicately patted him dry with soft presses of absorbent cloths. Another four stepped forward, bearing scents and lotions. Each began at the extremity of a limb and worked their way toward Thranduil’s heart, massaging soothing chrisms against his ivory skin until the scents of sage, mint, and vanilla mingled with the steam of the pool.

_Annathan ‘wanathgen._

Bright silver cloth draped Thranduil’s broad shoulders and clad his hips. Over his finely stitched tunic, he donned a trailing, sleeved coat, heavily embroidered with stylized swirls of mist along the back, while its upturned sleeves revealed an icy blue that matched his eyes. High boots of charcoal rose to embrace knee flourishes the color of a frosty winter sky.

Only when Thranduil was fully clothed did it become apparent to the attending servants that their king had begun to visibly radiate the power of his grace. His hair blazoned like the moon as it dried and was combed to a sheen of perfection before a scented brazier, and the cerulean light in his eyes charmed every elf in the chamber, so that the volume of their singing increased and grew ever more transporting.

A willowy servant brought a deep bowl of water, set aside from the sacred pool before the king entered its depths, and another with oak-brown braids fetched from the bowl the king’s rings, dried them, and set them on his fingers.

That left only Thranduil’s crown.

“Bring it here.” Thranduil’s voice was pure music.

The servant bearing the wildbrier crown approached on swift, light feet. Thranduil lifted it from the white linen. A sadness pulled at the edges of his brows as he studied the precious artifact, so long his silent companion, symbol of his guardianship. Then his brows evened, and he set the crown into the bowl. Holding a hand over the waters, the king said, “ _Ego, gwâth_.” Begone, Shade. “Let only the Light embrace this symbol, and he who wears it.”

The Elvenking’s crown lit from within, casting off every speck of dim and dust. The water in the bowl effervesced, then soothed to a perfect mirrorlike stillness. Thranduil lifted the wildbrier crown from the water and placed it upon his hair, where it gleamed like oiled bone, bare but invincible.

He was complete. He was ready.

_Annathan ‘wanathgen._

At that moment, the clockwork of the heavens aligned and sent into the purification chamber a messenger who had hurried all the way from the main gates. “ _Aranen_ , Tauriel returns.”

Thranduil’s fingers tucked a final lock of silverflax hair behind his ear and drew another forward to rest upon his chest. “She has found the one whom I seek?”

“ _Ná, aranen_.”

The king’s eyes flashed, holding worlds of possibility, endless power, and infinite grace. A dangerous smile lurked at the corner of his full lips. “To the hunter must the quarry fall. It is the way of the forest.” He strode through the door and down the corridor toward his throne hall.

_Annathan ‘wanathgen._


	5. Smiles of Ice and Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil comes face to face with the Shadow within Eryn Lasgalen, and he finds its appearance terrifyingly similar to his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little pun with Thranduil's name in this chapter. I swear it just happened on its own. I guess that happens when you have an elf murmuring in your ear for sixteen hours straight.

Tauriel strode at her king’s side with a swift pace, the better to keep up with the long-legged Sindar lord, and words poured from her mouth. “Nimuell awaits you in the throne hall, my lord. Baths are the joy of the day, it seems. I think you will find your charge much changed.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“Most assuredly, my lord. And the Sindar you had me retrieve, he was on his way here when we found him. He brought three wagons’ worth of gifts for your household, freshly arrived from beyond our borders, now sitting idly in the northern shale field.”

“Did he, indeed?” Thranduil’s eyes were ice. His gaze remained forward. “Does he think to purchase my blindness?”

Tauriel’s reply was sharp with concern. “Or poison your Light, my lord. Some of the chests in his wagons feel… _oer_.” Nasty.

At that, Thranduil did look over, though he did not slow his step. “Quarantine the northern shale field. Set a perimeter guard, douse the wagons with chrism oil, and light them from a distance with fireblack arrows. Under no circumstances is anyone to remove, or even touch, the contents of those wagons.”

“At once, my lord.” Tauriel’s path veered off down a broad side corridor that led to the front gates, and Thranduil continued to his throne hall.

The speculative buzz that rose from the gathered elves—servants, courtiers, and curious onlookers alike—in the Elvenking’s great hall hushed at the sight of Thranduil’s approach. Courtiers gathered in their finery within the finely wrought root lattices that framed the receiving round before Thranduil’s throne, while others observed from walkways that passed on to other halls, colonnaded aisles, and garden wings, leaning on delicately curving rails or dangling their feet into empty space. The king, in silver and blue, let himself be seen for a long moment before walking the curving rootpath into the center of the receiving round, where his throne awaited. Where his destiny awaited, and not his alone. His sleeved cloak trailed the smooth wood behind him, whispering of easy paths worn smooth. But Thranduil was in need of a new path, no matter how rough. _Valar, guide my hand_.

Nimuell sat on the bottom step to Thranduil’s throne but jumped up at the sight of the king, hands fiddling nervously. Thranduil offered the child a welcoming smile and reached forth his hands. He held the _tithelloth_ ’s hands out to the sides and performed a swift study of the child’s new attire—a soft blue tunic and leggings trimmed in deepest gold. Nimuell stared up at the towering glory the Elvenking exuded. Everyone was watching, but Thranduil bent a little and murmured, “I see the bath maidens sang to you, too. You are fairly glowing, Nimuell, and you gleam like a new daylily in those colors. Are you much refreshed?”

Nimuell’s smile was as bright as the stars. Auburn hair glistening, cheeks ruddy with Silvan health, the young _edhel_ stood taller, as if bathing in the Elvenking’s Hall were capable of adding another century’s worth of height. “I am, _aranen_. What will happen now?”

Thranduil’s eyes blazed with cool certainty. “The will of the Valar. Do you trust me, _tithelloth_?”

Nimuell’s hands twitched in Thranduil’s grasp. “I believe so, _aranen_. You have only been kind to me. As a true Eldar should be. A true king.”

Thranduil’s cheeks softened with a smile. “It much gladdens me to hear you say it. I intend to deal with your attacker now. Will you sit with me?” He tipped the points of his crown toward his throne, which loomed above them both.

Nimuell’s eyes widened. “Up there?”

Laughter tugged at the corner of the king’s mouth. “Where else would you have the Elvenking sit? Escort me to my throne.” With one hand, he nudged the child toward the throne steps.

With eyes the size of soup bowls, Nimuell took the first step, then the second. Thranduil trailed behind, head high, bare crown aloft, cloak whispering along the wooden steps, its patterns of mist touching and swirling with the king’s graceful sway.

The elves of Eryn Lasgalen watched in amazed and respectful silence. No one dared make the tiniest murmur.

Thranduil reached the upper platform and spun elegantly around Nimuell, cloak rising in the breeze of his motion. The mist upon his cloak seemed to move of its own free will. With a merry twinkle in his eyes, he paused before his throne, facing those below and in the distance. He sank into the royal seat with a graceful flow that put sun-spangled streams to shame, eased to one side, and threw one leg over the other. He tipped his head and considered his young, brave companion. “Sit with me, Nimuell.”

Aghast at the surfeit of honor offered, Nimuell was short of breath. “Ah, I beg you to give me leave to decline, my king. I am not worthy.”

“No? Are you certain?” In the far distance, Thranduil’s ears picked up the sound of the great gates opening. His long-awaited guest had finally made an appearance. And appearances were Thranduil’s meat and wine. With eyes on Tauriel and the lanky Sindar she escorted toward him, the king offered a careless wave upward.  “Then you may perch in my antlers.”

Nimuell’s eyes darted upward in surprise and returned just as quickly to Thranduil’s crystalline gaze. “You jest with me, _aranen_.”

“I do nothing of the sort. Up with you. The antlers are strong. They will shelter you safely. As I do.” Thranduil reiterated his will with a sharp look, a kestrel-swift smile, and a twitch of his crown.

With a breathless laugh, Nimuell planted a small foot on the right armrest of Thranduil’s throne and scrambled up into the wide, sheltering antlers that guarded the king’s seat like eagle wings made of ancient stone. With a sturdy hold on one thick, bony spike, the child nestled gently into place, tucked against the solid breadth of the ancient megaloceros antlers.

Tauriel’s bright thoughts brought the king the smell of burning wood, sun-warmed shale, and a guarded optimism. _The wagons are alight in the shale field, my lord. Their master has been searched._

 _Then let him come_ , Thranduil responded.

As Tauriel led— _herded_ —her charge along the curving walkway that stretched to the gates, every eye save the king’s fell on the tall Sindar with unabashed curiosity, for Thranduil’s gaze played the crowd, listening to their attentive hearts. By his practical, workaday garb—palest green with burnt umber flourishes and a belt bearing small pouches from which to make correct monetary exchanges—the elf approaching the king was a trader. His smooth white hair was bound back from his forehead in a trio of cordage braids that met at the back of his crown and divided into a fine net of tiny weavings that ended at his nape, letting his long, unbound hair fall freely to rest upon his back. His forehead was high, his brows peaked in the middle, and his straight nose rode close to his cheeks like a finely shaped quartz crystal.

The face hovered over Thranduil in the memories he had gleaned from Nimuell. It had smiled at Thranduil’s pain, his helplessness. Thranduil’s fingers twitched atop the armrests of his throne.

At last, he looked down his nose at the trader, so far beneath him, yet there in the midst of his people. In the Sindar’s chest, a tight knob of Shadow clenched his heart and sent its veins all throughout his body.

 _Annathan ‘wanathgen._ I will kill you.

“Noldolas.” Thranduil heard his own voice speak. Every eye flickered from the trader to the king. He felt the weight of his people’s stares. He felt the weight of this Shadow-vessel’s name. He realized he had not given it voice since meeting Nimuell in the nightwood, as if the one who had attacked the child was a fell creature risen from the twisted deeps of the earth, nameless, bearing a form only whispered of in the shadows. But no. He was just an elf. A Sindar. Like Thranduil, and yet, so unlike him as to be unrecognizable. Orcs were easy to comprehend—their twisted evil lay upon their skin. _But this, a fair face hiding a black heart?_ _It is not well._

The trader heartily ignored his armed escort and stepped forward into the center of the receiving round. His bow was grace itself, and when he greeted the king, his mellifluous words seemed to chime in the very air, as snowflakes glinting with sunlight. “My most gracious lord, I am blessed beyond measure to bow in your honored presence.”

Thranduil lifted his chin. A muscle in his jaw tensed. He smoothed it. Waited.

Noldolas stood after a long moment and raised his eyes to the king. Only then, it seemed, did he notice Nimuell, perched behind Thranduil’s shoulder, nestled among the king’s antlered throne like a puff of lichen.

His smile did not waver.

Thranduil felt a pulse of wariness flow through him, sharpening his gaze.

“How fortunate,” Noldolas began brightly, “that you summoned me into your presence—most humbly grateful, my lord—at this very hour, for I have had the good fortune to come upon a treasure—” and here Noldolas held aloft a winking object and turned, that all gathered might see it— “fit only for the glory of King Thranduil himself.”

Chagrined, Tauriel glanced from the silvery ring in the trader’s hand to Thranduil’s sharp look. She had missed something—he had concealed it from her even as she searched him, and that spoke volumes. The Captain of the Guard stepped forward briskly to remedy the situation.

Thranduil stopped her with a crisp gesture and leaned forward as if enthralled. “What have you brought me?” he asked. His voice bore the deadly softness of a black wolf in its den.

“This ring is newly made in Erebor, great king, of the same stones that graced the _Sigil Lasgalen._ See here, the starlight glory of their gleaming!”

Thranduil’s eyes flickered for the barest moment. He had been ready to go to war for the White Gems of Lasgalen half a century ago. But the sacred grace of the Valar flowed around him like a soothing balm, and he was minded of his healing, his growth, like that of a new, lively shoot from a hoary-headed old oak.

The king tilted his crown to an angle of benign curiosity. “Tell me, Noldolas, do you seek to distract me from your crime by forcibly reminding me of my personal torments, or do you merely mean to bribe me with this ring on its value alone?”

The silence in the vast hall was so sudden that it seemed to suck away all the air. No one moved. All eyes lay fixed on Noldolas and the king. Noldolas still held the ring aloft, though more as a talisman against the king’s wrath. Thranduil stared down at him with eyes of cerulean fire, unblinking, unswayed.

The impasse lasted so long, Thranduil wondered if the Fifth Age had begun while he locked eyes with this fool.

 _No. he is no fool. He is canny._ _He_ knows.

_Annathan ‘wanathgen._

A hard smile began in the corners of the king’s eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, it spread to his lips, a running frost so cold that it could freeze the glory of a vigorous spring in full flow and leave it perfect, icy, impervious. His eyes were caves of blue ice beneath his sheltering brows. The great hall thrummed silently with tension, webbing everyone in place as if the spiders of Dol Guldur had returned. When even he could barely breathe from its pressure, Thranduil shifted in his throne and glanced up at Nimuell with a merry look. “I once faced a rabid mountain bear, high in the winter hills, after it ravaged a nearby village. It knew me for a foe as we eyed each other across a stream. It should have fled. But it did not. Against all reason, it stood and faced me. I would swear that it relished the challenge, yet it held no thought for the consequences of its actions.”

Struggling to follow the king’s mercurial tangent, Nimuell stuttered, “And-and what happened, _aranen_?”

Thranduil turned his snowstorm gaze upon Noldolas. His cheeks offered no merriment now. “I killed it.”

The trader had the good sense to shift uneasily. He tucked the bright ring away, its talisman powers ineffectual. The hard smile pulled at the corner of Thranduil’s mouth once more. He turned back to Nimuell, whose eyes bore stars of adoration. “Speak truly, Nimuell. You wish this Sindar trader—this Sindar _traitor_ —punished?”

Nimuell’s eyes were full wide. Faint breath answered, “Yes.”

“Do you wish _me_ to administer it?” Thranduil ran two fingers through his long moon-bright hair. _Me, a Sindar. One who believes you._

Nimuell’s chest heaved, as that of a kit stepping into its first breaths of brightest spring. “ _Ná, aranen_.”

“Excellent. It is also my wish.” In a soft voice, the king added, “Remain here. It is time I served my purpose, and yours.”

Thranduil rose and let himself be admired. The fall of his misty cloak accentuated his Eldar perfection, as a wreath of fog draws the eye to the sun-kissed hilltop that crowns it. He tipped his face up and closed his eyes, feeling the blessing of the Valar upon him. Stirrings moved deep in his soul, and though he could not yet perceive their shape, their songs echoed to the surface. _Na-tegil, Valar._ Lead on, Valar.

With effortless smoothness, he poured himself down the stairs until he stood at the bottom, mere paces from the lanky Sindar. Tauriel strode toward him and took up station at the base of the steps. With perfect timing, she slid a cool, metal handle into Thranduil’s grip as he passed in front of her.

Two steps, and Thranduil’s blade leapt forth to hover hungrily next to Noldolas’s neck.

 _Annathan ‘wanathgen._ I. Will. Kill. You.

 In shock, Noldolas’s crisp blue eyes slid to the king’s sword, up its blade, to the taut hand that gripped it, and then to Thranduil’s unyielding expression.

“Are you a creature of the Shadow?” Thranduil demanded. “Has Sauron spawned again so soon, that he marches even now beneath Eryn Lasgalen’s green and sheltering trees?”

Sweat graced Noldolas’s brow like a circlet of guilt. “Ah, my king, surely you know me as a good and true Sindar. I am most distressed to hear of your misinformation at the hands of such a foolish little—”

“ _Dîn!_ ” Silence! Thranduil’s voice rolled like winter thunder across the watching crowd. Gasps of awe and alarm echoed around him like chickadees’ alarm calls, scattering away along the hall. “Answer my question or do not speak at all. I am no Númenórean, to be swayed by sweet charms from your lips.”

“I am no such creature, my good king, I faithfully swear it.” Yet a twisted merriment danced in Noldolas’s eyes.

Thranduil felt a tremor of pure rage shake his mighty form, and his sword shivered against the pulse in Noldolas’s neck. A glossy black tendril of Shadow advanced along the spine of his blade, worming its way toward his hand like a black slime mold intent on a meal. So great was the king’s fury that he did not immediately pull his sword from its slick grasp. In the dim depths of his soul, a raspy chuckle echoed upward, as if from a long-buried and unlamented tomb. Scarred skin pulled at a twisted smile in his mind’s eye. With a sudden intake of breath, Thranduil drew back from the soul-poisoned Eldar, and the mocking laughter that rang his head retreated into silence.

Stilling his blade at his side, Thranduil let his voice roll down the spacious hall. “Much is made of the healing skills of the Eldar, yet there is a plague in such things as fear. As shame.” Catlike, he paced slowly back and forth before Noldolas. His eyes held the trader’s, gauged the watching elves’ reaction, warned Tauriel to stay back. “They can be made to spread across an entire realm, whether the truth of their origin is revealed, or whether it is hidden. Speculative whispers in the dark give rise to genuine shadows. If a fear is allowed to live unchallenged, it invades the minds of all who know of it. It becomes just another part of their daily lives.” Thranduil played to his adoring crowd, voice raised in cold imitation, judging with his every word. “Such a _pity_ about what has come to pass. Yet is this not the way of things, from time to time? Nothing can be done.”

He spun, misty cloak flying out behind him, until his sword kissed Noldolas’s neck once more, pressed straight across his trachea as Thranduil leaned in closely, cerulean eyes ablaze and unblinking. “But no,” he continued. “Something _can_ be done _. I_ can be done. I can be done… _with you_.”

Noldolas squinted, uncertain whether the king was feinting yet again.

“For do we not uproot the weed in our midst?” Thranduil roared, spinning away from the trader yet again, stalking the round like a silver-white lion, eyes upon his watching people. “Do we not pluck forth the rot ere it begins to spread, to taint the whole garden?” He made a slow turn, staring out at the listening elves. “ _Do we not_?”

Murmurs in the affirmative were cut short by Nololas’s radiant voice. “My most gracious king, this is truly an impressive show,” he began, “yet I fear you are operating on false—”

Thranduil turned away and stilled abruptly. Utterly still, as if turned to cold marble in the center of the round. His cloak fluttered close about his feet, closing Noldolas’s words out.

Yet the trader pushed onward. “Surely there is ancient kinship between us, my lord? Our Sindar blood joins us in a higher understanding than these Silvans will ever enjoy. Is there no way for you, in your boundless generosity and wisdom, to see that we two are natural allies?”

Thranduil did not move, save for the slow, straining heave of his breath. He felt the weight of Nimuell’s gaze from overhead. The weight of expectation. Of incipient _precedent_. _Valar, tegil-nin_. Valar, guide me.

Noldolas tried another tack. “It is not as if I have done the poor thing any harm. Silvans are sturdy stock. Rustic, you might say. A people of the very earth itself—”

“Which is it?” Thranduil interrupted, turning his head until his profile allowed him to catch sight of Noldolas from the corner of his eye. His voice was the very chill of deepest winter.

“My lord?”

Thranduil turned no further toward Noldolas. “Which excuse do you wish me to consider?” he asked over his shoulder. “That you should be excused for your vile behavior on the merit of our shared Sindar blood, or that you in fact committed no crime at all because the Silvan elves, by dint of their deep affinity with nature, somehow merit such abuse?”

Angry mutters swarmed like bats in the high shadows of the hall and gathered, grumbling, in the deep, stony shadows.

Thranduil’s people were afraid. They were angry. Their emotions pressed on him from all directions. The Shadow stirred, sensing a vast harvest. But their cares did not fissure the king’s heart. They forged it into incandescent power.

For the second time in his life, the _Aglar Goeaul_ , the Terrible Glory, came upon the Elvenking.


	6. Aglar Goeaul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touched by the Valar, Thranduil enters the state of Aglar Goeaul, the Terrible Glory, and the gods of Middle-Earth have their way with Nimuell's abuser. But every choice has consequences, and Thranduil and Nimuell must decide their fates for themselves.

With a shudder that drew his head back and lifted a gasp from his lips, Thranduil flowed into motion. His sword flew from his hand, burying its tip deep in the curve of his staircase with a thud. Tauriel gave it a wary look, then shifted her gaze back to Thranduil. But he did not see her. He did not see anyone.

Warm breezes caressed his hair, lifting, teasing it from his shoulders as if it were borne on invisible waters. A glow emanated from every moonlit strand. His cloak rode invisible swells, swirling around him as if in a silken maelstrom. The Elvenking seemed to grow in stature, his shoulders broadening, his legs lengthening. His courtiers drew back in awe.

Thranduil turned as if given movement by the winds themselves, facing Noldolas at last. He and those courtiers who stood behind him gasped as one and fell to their knees.

The Elvenking’s eyes had pearled, and his face was alight with blessed rage. Those who had been so cursed as to have fought with him at Gundabad had seen then such an effect upon the visage of their king. Seen it, and lived to tell the tale. Seen it, and tried ever after to forget it. Then, Thranduil had walked in Terrible Glory, passed through it into Deepest Darkness. Now, he knew where that border lay. He did not intend to cross it again.

The barest twitch of the Elvenking’s crown brought ropy roots streaming from the floor of the receiving round—an ancient wood dead for millennia, now sprouting fresh quickening—and they bound Noldolas in place, twining about his ankles and wrists, snaking his neck so that he could not look away. Stone shards spiraled up from below, in the deep shadows of the hall, and bracketed the wood bindings, threatening harm should the prisoner struggle.

The very arches of the stone vaults overhead peeled back in ordered fashion. No dust fell from above, only pure shafts of generous sunlight on the cusp of _ethuil_. Yet the great hall did not chill with the cool of midmorning. Thranduil’s power harnessed the warmth of the hall and bound it in place. Everyone present stood dazzled at the sudden sunlight, and at their king.

Thranduil drifted closer—in disbelief, Tauriel’s gaze flickered to the king’s feet, yet she could not be sure if his boots even touched the floor. His thick mane drifted about his head in a moonlit glory that only emphasized the bare crown he wore. “You will confess.” His voice was the merest whisper, yet it rang from every surface in the great hall.

The Elvenking was everywhere at once.

His spirit filled the hall, pressed against every elf in it. He stood beside each of them. He braced their shoulders, he held their hands. He rested his guardian palm upon the heads of their children.

“You stand before the Elvenking, Thranduil Oropherion, King of Eryn Lasgalen. _You. Will. Confess.”_

Behind the king, Nimuell pressed hands to wet cheeks, overwhelmed, dazzled, breathless.

At the foot of the king’s stair, Tauriel fought the urge to drop to her knees and blurt her every sin.

From many points across the great hall, others were not so hesitant. Desperate whispers and pleas for forgiveness fluttered on the king’s winds like flights of butterflies.

_Annathan ‘wanathgen._

The Shadow that curled so tightly around Noldolas’s heart spasmed. Loosened. The sensation seemed to rip at Noldolas’s chest, and his body wrenched within its bonds. Words poured forth like a torrent. “The Men of Dale—and the Women—they always gazed upon me with great delight, my king. They were enamored of me on my every visit —my strength, my beauty, my fair hair, so unlike their own. Their touches, their songs, their wine—I found them pleasing, in a small and animal way. Their mortality pleased me. So short a span. A hundred years, it is nothing to us, and everything to them. And then, I saw the child at the flower gardens as I returned from my trade journey—the same age as Men, you see. The same number of years upon this good soil. And it, too, pleased me. But the child did not understand. I tried to explain, I did try. But I had need of—”

Thranduil’s halo of moon-bright hair flared imperiously. “ _Stop_. You attempt to shift blame to the mortality of Men for your Shadowed predilection?” The Elvenking’s pearled eyes were winter ice.

Noldolas quaked where he was bound, desperate to cower, to fawn. Inexorably, the power of the king’s otherworldly grace drew the truth from his lips. “No. Something found me in the night, in Dale. It soothed me with gentle words. And I wanted to be soothed, my king. I wanted it. For are not the children of the Eldar more pleasing to the eye than even the fairest of Men?”

The Elvenking’s scorn rang from the vaults of the great hall. “Is beauty now a commodity you feel justified to trade for, foul merchant, or do you simply _steal it_?”

A grimace of rage broke across Noldolas’s face as he glared up at the Elvenking. “Am I not beautiful? Am I not graced with more glory and reason than the Silvan elves, than Men? Do I not deserve to indulge in beauty wheresoever I find it? I am _Sindar_!”

But Thranduil was turning away. Tauriel was mostly sure she saw his boots touch the ground as he trod in a slow circle away from her, past the foot of his throne, and back around toward the steps she guarded. His hand flowed out as if made of water given spirit and drew his sword from the wood of the stair as if trailing a spider’s web through the air. His blazing white eyes caught hers, enthralled her, warned her not to interfere. Such power rolled off of him that she had trouble breathing when he drew near. He shone like the full winter moon at first rise. The light of him, the _Light_ of him, brushed her cheeks and the backs of her hands, and she shivered as if she had stepped from cool stone halls into the strongest beams of summer sun. Her gaze clung to him as he passed. How could any flower fail to turn its face toward such endless warmth? Surely, she thought, he was the very image of a _fân—_ a radiant figure such as the Valar chose for their forms rather than flesh.

Sword once more in hand, Thranduil drifted toward Noldolas. His cloak billowed with slow, fervent motion. His hair was fully alight, and his eyes seemed to see beyond the world before him. “Can a child consent to your _Sindar_ attentions, Noldolas? Can an egg sing of the valley’s summer view full away on the wing?” In the king’s free hand, a speckled egg formed, resting on his palm. Its life much sped, the egg hatched, and its chick fledged and took flight, rising on flickering wings through the great opening in the cavern’s roof.

“Can the apple blossom declaim upon the amber richness of cider?” The egg was replaced in the king’s hand by a flowering stem, which quickened into an apple that grew, ripened, and gave forth its juice into a swirl that danced about the king’s head like a diadem of liquid gold before dispersing into the air.

“The First Children were given eternity. What a curse you have tried to bestow—an eternity of pain and shame! Is _that_ Sindar? Is it _Sindar_ to bear such impatience as to lay claim before the fullness of time? Is it _Sindar_ to grasp with both hands that which is not— _cannot_ be—freely given?”

Fine particles of stone spiraled down from the edges of the gap in the great cavern’s ceiling at the sheer _force_ of the Elvenking’s voice. Tauriel was so awestruck that she let some of it land upon her hair, failing entirely to step out of the way.

Thranduil stood before Noldolas, sword in hand. His pearlescent eyes beheld all—all that was, all that is, and all that would come to pass. Noldolas’s lifespan—six thousand years of choices, his innocent youth, his terrible, damning sense of privilege—and the king knew he could not raise his sword to take Noldolas’s life.

Nimuell gasped in shock as the Elvenking threw his arms around Noldolas. Was the Sindar Elvenking committing a betrayal for the sake of his kin? The child’s sweaty palms pressed against cold cheeks.

Thranduil took up a fistful of Noldolas’s long platinum hair, and with his other hand he drew his sword sharply across it, slicing through the delicate netting braids and severing the trader’s glorious hair from his head, leaving only sharp-edged stubble and frayed weavings. Gasps ringed the hall. Noldolas’s trapped hands twitched as if he would reach for his stubbled nape in utter disbelief.

The Elvenking stepped back, clutching his soft prize, and held it aloft. Silver flames began to devour Noldolas’s pallid Sindar locks, licking hungrily at them, stirring them with fervent heat in the king’s unburnt grip. Thranduil locked his pearled eyes onto Noldolas as his trophy was devoured

“Here is my judgement. Your actions are not Sindar. Not Eldar. Not _edhellen_. You betray the very heart of our spirit with your base betrayal. _Edlenneneg_.” You are banished.

“ _Edlennenin_?” Noldolas began to laugh. “Is that all?”

Thranduil rose from the floor, Tauriel was certain this time. He extended a hand that radiated like marble in the beams of full noon. “Your beauty is banished, for you have betrayed beauty’s very heart. Your Sindar spirit is banished, for you have betrayed the very spirit of your people. By the will of the Valar, your Eldar grace is _rescinded_. Henceforth I do curse you with the mortal span of Men.” The Elvenking’s hand drew a graceful curlicue in the air, inviting Noldolas’s grace to depart.

And it did.

A delicate light twined with glints of gold, the rich scent of late summer, and distant birdsong, swirled forth from Noldolas and danced away into the morning light, up and away from the Elvenking’s Hall.

Noldolas’s remaining hair faded to a gray ashen hue and his form shrank, twisting in on itself. Bones popped and tendons twanged as he wizened before the pearled eyes of the Elvenking.

_Annathan ‘wanathgen._

Thranduil let the wood and stone loose, freeing Noldolas to what remained of his fate. Stone fragments clattered to the floor of the round, and the new shoots that had bound him retreated into the ancient wood once more.

Noldolas shivered, buckled forward until his hands caught against his knees. He did feel for his shorn nape, then. His palsied fingers shook a little at the loss, but a raspy laugh issued from his wrinkled mouth. “And are you done with me, my good king? Have I, at last, your leave to depart?”

The Elvenking lowered his head, directing all his attention to Noldolas’s aged body. The smile that overtook his face was terrible to behold, and beautiful as the dawn. His crown tipped to one side. When he spoke, his voice was the brush of new leaves, the song of newly melted waters. The weight of the living forest itself. “You have, at last, my leave to depart.”

The mortal span of Men was much varied, but it in no way extended to six thousand years. Death reached its bony fingers upward and sucked the last drops of life from Noldolas’s form. He dried like a leaf in a firestorm and powdered just as quickly. His ashy flesh drifted down around his bones in heavy swirls, and those bones crumbled a breath later. The sparkling ring fell from his pocket and was buried in his dust.

The Light of the Elvenking radiated throughout the great hall, tending every soul as a gardener tends the roots of his plants and frees them from stones and rot that they may flourish. The scrap of black that lived in Nimuell’s chest faltered and perished in awe. The Shadow was left with nowhere to live, and so it died.

The Elvenking’s crown, gleaming like oiled bone, dipped forward. His face was wreathed in terrible glory. His smile could slay— _had_ slain—dragons.

_I told you I would kill you._

Cries ringed the vast chamber at the sight of the Eldar made dust.

The stone folds that had peeled back to admit the strong rays of morning light tenderly tucked themselves back into place and sealed. The hall dimmed, lit once again only by atmospheric shafts that fell through the rounded _hâlgalad_.

Thranduil’s feet touched down, and his knee followed. He leaned on one hand, bracing himself as the full radiant power of the _Aglar Goeaul_ receded, tracing hard, shocking shivers across his skin. His hair settled around his shoulders in soft concert, and he could feel his Valar-touched sight dim.

The Undying Lands, bordering the far edge of his vision as the _Aglar Goeaul_ lay upon him, faded from view. Legolas. He had seen his son there. Would see. Might never see.

He felt heavy. Tired. He drew a slow breath.

A nap would be true bliss. But there was yet a little more to be done.

Tauriel was at his side in an instant. “My lord, how fare you?” Her question was light, hesitant, a bird aflutter on the branch.

“I endure, Tauriel, as always. How fares our charge?”

Tauriel glanced up at Nimuell, who stared down at them in wide-eyed concern. “Well also, my lord.”

Thranduil stood unaided and gazed coldly upon the mortal remains of the Sindar known as Noldolas. He raised his voice and said, “Clear this away. Take it to the gardens. Now that it is free of the Shadow, perhaps it may yet do some good by nourishing new life.”

Servants poured forth to do his bidding.

“My lord, your garments!” Tauriel exclaimed. Her eyes were pinned on the king’s chest.

He looked down at his once-silver tunic. It had been burned to purest, gleaming white by the power of the Valar that had coursed through him, along with his leggings, his new boots, and the entirety of his cloak.

Even the metal of his sword was now purest white.

Tauriel, lost for words, dropped to a knee and bowed her head. Rustled murmurings rippled outward from the receiving round. Finally, she found her tongue and inquired, “Will my Lord Thranduil be remaining in Eryn Lasgalen, or does he have an appointment at Mithlond?”

The hall stilled, awaiting the king’s answer. Would the Grey Havens call their blessed king away?

Thranduil had never been one to put on airs—well, that was entirely false, but he did not incline to the sort of airs that elves put on if they intended to go into the West. Like his father before him, Thranduil embraced the honest philosophy of the Silvan elves, that an eternal life was best spent by living it to the fullest. Good song, good food and wine, good company, a hall surrounded by river and forest, and a crown that bore the turning of the seasons above its king’s ears. How could he abandon his people, his truest of hearts, and strut off to embrace a land he had only seen in great, terrible visions, surrounded by elves who did not believe as he did?

He could not fathom it, though his heart lifted at the thought that his son could find value in such an eternity, and would, someday. He tilted his head and let his gaze rest on Tauriel’s bright hair. “Your Lord Thranduil has an appointment with a long, natural life in this blessed wood, followed by a delightful fading into pure spirit, that he may dwell ever with the land he loves most in all the world. And your Lord Thranduil also has an appointment with the kitchens. Perhaps some apricots.”

Tauriel looked up sharply, saw his teasing smile, and felt all her sudden tension bleed away. Her king radiated a beauty that drew her deepest secrets from her soul, but he would remain her king. “I will fetch them at once, my lord.”

His smile blossomed into fullness. “And take this with you. I have no further need of it this day.” He held out the handle of his pure white sword, and she accepted it with no small reverence.

Tauriel offered a departing bow deeper than usual and backed away. Thranduil turned slowly from the servants who gingerly gathered Noldolas’s remains with a soft brush and a flat garden basket, as they had begun shooting furtive looks at his radiant cloak. No one dared approach him, but the edge of the receiving round was fairly abuzz with whispers. Thranduil felt uncommonly exposed, as if he had stripped off his tunic, twined his silverflax hair and his blade with roses of deepest red, and performed the _Lilthamegil Hîthaduial,_ complete with all seven verses, before every maiden in Eryn Lasgalen. He gave a rueful chuckle at the very idea. He hadn’t gamboled the steps of the Sword-dance of Misty Twilight in nearly three millennia. But then, he had not been touched by the Valar in nearly that long, either.

The familiar mantle of age-old sorrow landed but lightly on his broad shoulders. Millennia ago, grief had driven him to a state of such destructive glory that his own people had shied back from his power, but, by the blessed grace of the Valar, this time he had refrained from striding after his scarred aspect into Deepest Darkness.

As he gathered himself, he felt the weight of Nimuell’s stare from high within the antlers of his throne and met the child’s gaze. “Is it well, my judgment? Are you satisfied?”

In silent awe, Nimuell nodded, but Thranduil could feel the poor _tithelloth_ ’s shivering emotions beneath. _Starlight is memory, and memory endures._

With the fluid movements of water that has done the impossible for several millennia, Thranduil flowed up the steps to his throne in effortless grace. He paused before his young charge as they met eye to eye, king to subject, _edhel_ to _edhel_.

Thranduil dipped his head a fraction. “I would do more for you, if you will allow it.”

“What more, _aranen_? You have slain my attacker already.”

The king’s chin pulled up. “I did not slay him. I confiscated his grace on behalf of the Valar, as he has so misused it. He had simply overstayed his welcome within his new lifespan.” Thranduil reached a gentle hand out and cupped Nimuell’s cheek. “His death is a weight you need not carry. He died of his own actions.”

Nimuell blinked and let out an troubled breath. “Why did you punish him that way, where all could see?”

“The only way to fight the Shadow is to spread Light. With everyone’s eyes upon Noldolas’s fate, word of my justice, my protection, will spread throughout Eryn Lagalen by nightfall. No such Shadow will ever darken my realm again. I will not allow it.”

“You are wise, _aranen_ , and most blessed by the Valar.” Nimuell’s cornflower eyes dropped to the king’s sanctified raiment. “Perhaps is it selfish of me, but I am gladdened that you have not chosen the Grey Havens.”

A smile lit the corner of Thranduil’s mouth, and with one finger, he smoothed a line of moon-hued stitching along the hem of his cloak. “Gray was never quite enough for me. I prefer silver, with bright bursts of color. And now, apparently, white.”

Nimuell studied the king critically. “Your bright colors suit you better, I think.”

“Oh yes? And why is that?”

The _tithelloth_ ’s smile was a radiant bloom. “The land you rule is bursting with color, my king. And I would be saddened on your behalf if any Man should be rewarded with a stray glimpse of your kingly self, only to confuse you with the White Wizard Saruman.”

A faint ripple of exasperation flickered across the king’s fine features, settling into a wry smile upon his lips. “Do not speak to me of wizards, Nimuell. They are but winter thunder on a wild wind. Even when they are right. Now, I have a gift, and a request.”

Nimuell sat up straighter. “Anything my king requires.”

“Firstly, I return to you your fate. Your surrender in the nightwood was borne of critical circumstance. No, do not think that I pity you, Nimuell. For you cannot grant my following request unless you are free to choose your own way. I will not order you to obey me.”

Nimuell’s eyes shone. “Then I thank you for returning my fate to my own hand, my king. What would you ask of me?”

“It is one thing to spread the Light within Eryn Lasgalen. But, as I learned later than I should, there are many realms in need of defense beyond my borders. Will you help me defend against the Shadow _beyond_ the edge of the forest? I find myself in need of one who has familiarity with this brand of Shadow, and the strength to stand against it. Will you stand, and teach others to do so?” Thranduil held out an open hand.

Nimuell’s brows fluttered with the depth of the king’s request.

“I believe there is a fresh opening amongst the trading community, if you can bear to part from your flowers. There is great strength in you, and I would have you know it. Not only for your own sake, but for the sake of all the children across my realm and beyond it—the children of the Eldar, and the children of Men and Dwarves alike.”

Nimuell’s mouth pressed into a soft line. “It still hurts, _aranen_. How can I help, if I still hurt so?”

Thranduil’s eyes drew his own young face over Nimuell’s. “I will not turn away from you. Your voice is the voice of truth. Let me heal your starlight, Nimuell.”

Nimuell, with eyes wide and determined, placed a small hand in the king’s. Thranduil led the child to a perch upon the seat of his throne. His long fingers cupped Nimuell’s delicate face, and his eyes delved into Nimuell’s soul, drawing out the memories Noldolas had forced inside the child’s head, sieving them, and peeling away the darkness until the stars in their shared sky dazzled once again with radiance. As Nimuell’s heart rebounded, so too did Thranduil’s.

At last, they stood together, free.

“I still remember, but it does not hurt anymore.” Nimuell’s eyes sought confirmation from the king.

Thranduil nodded. “One cannot fight the Shadow if one does not remember its shape, _tithelloth_.”

Nimuell’s brows lowered like a warrior accepting a challenge. “ _Ná, aranen._ I will go where you send me.”

Thranduil tipped his bare crown and smiled. “Already you grow in wisdom.” Still clasping the child’s hand, the king led the way back down his steps to the receiving round. A small tug on his hand arrested his step as he reached the floor, and he turned back to see a curiously intense look upon Nimuell’s small features. Though the child stood two steps from the floor, those russet locks did not yet reach the king’s chin. “Yes, _tithelloth_?”

“ _’Tithelloth_.’ Little flower. My king knows my very soul,” Nimuell murmured. “May I give my king a small token for his great kindness?”

Thranduil drew nearer and looked down upon the young Eldar with affection. “To accept a gift is to double its joy. What would you offer your king?”

In response, Nimuell raised slender arms toward the towering monarch. Thranduil swept the _hên_ into a tight embrace, and the shimmering folds of his white cloak enfolded them both. The king’s heart beat slow and steady, and Nimuell’s pattered a joyous counterpoint.

Soft whispers brushed Thranduil’s ear, carrying warmth and light, spangling the air, before they swirled away.

Drawing back, Thranduil studied the flower shepherder. “You were not speaking to _me_ , were you.”

Nimuell’s eyes sparkled with pride and glee. “Not quite, _aranen_.”

Thranduil lifted his chin a shade. “I am not accustomed to being so ignored. But I shall overlook it this once.”

Nimuell’s head bobbed. “My king is gracious and wise.”

“Hmm, and you are fortunate that he is so.”

A dimple puckered Nimuell’s cheek. “ _Ná, aranen_.”

Tauriel approached, bearing a platter laden with apricots and other delicacies. She offered it to Thranduil with a smile that informed him that she was in no way apologetic for her earlier apricot-related shenanigans.

Holding her gaze, Thranduil took the platter and offered the ripest apricot to Nimuell, who gladly accepted it and took a huge bite. “Captain, see that this young trader is well housed and kitted for a journey beyond our borders. I also require every wagonmaster in the kingdom to assemble in my hall in three days’ time. We have much to discuss. See that they are informed.”

“As my lord commands. Come, Nimuell.” She held out a hand, and the child leapt to clasp it.

Two steps later, though, Nimuell pulled free, turned, and knelt on one knee, leaving Tauriel to wait in a swirl of auburn hair. “Thank you, my king, for saving me.”

Though his eyes remained on Nimuell, Thranduil gestured sharply to the servants bearing away Noldolas’s remains. They paused beside Tauriel. “Bring it here.”

With reverence, they approached, bearing the dust heap within the king’s reach. He plucked the white-gemmed ring from amid the ash, met Tauriel’s eyes, and blew a puff of air across the jewels, freeing their glimmer from the cling of mortal remains.

Her _tsk_ was nearly silent. Nearly.

With a silent wave, Thranduil sent the servants on their way to the gardens. “Rise now and take this with you,” he said, holding out the ring.

Nimuell  got up slowly and gingerly accepted the priceless artifact. “But, _aranen_ , are these not the companion jewels to those you prize so highly? Why would you give me the ring?”

Thranduil took a slow breath before answering. “I give it you, Nimuell, _because_ I prize the White Gems of Lasgalen so highly.”

The _tithelloth_ did not understand, but one day, Thranduil would explain. One day, long years hence, for he and Nimuell were bound together now. The _hên_ might not have intended to call to the king in the deeps of the night, but it had been their fate to meet in the nightwood.

“What shall I do with it?” Eyes on the ring, Nimuell was clearly at a loss.

“Keep the ring, sell it. Ecthelion of Gondor has passed, but his son Denethor will give you a good price for it. Use the funds as you and your wagonmasters see fit.”

Nimuell’s eyes sparkled as brightly as the white gems in the ring. “Thank you, my king! I will never forget your kindness, your generosity… or your terrible beauty.”

Thranduil lifted another apricot from the bowl and studied it. Its stem sprouted fresh leaves, followed by a delicate new blossom. He tipped his bare crown to Nimuell. The king’s smile was the burgeoning joy of flocking starlings, the glimmer of a glassy lake at sunset, the rising of the moon over the mountains. “See that you do not.”

With a careless wave of dismissal, Thranduil released his people from the finale of the spectacle he had created. As the hall emptied, with elves striding in all directions, bursting with a gripping new tale to tell of the wonders of the Elvenking, Thranduil eased up the stairs and settled into his throne.

No one, no one at _all_ , was looking at him. The lack of attention rang like a bell, a hollow silence that could not be unheard. Thranduil turned in his seat and crossed one knee over the other, admiring his apricot. But just as he opened his mouth to take a small bite, a shiver rippled through the wooden spikes of his bare crown.

The king stilled, every sense aflare. A deep excitement thrummed in his belly, and he held his breath in anticipation. The apricot found absent-minded rest upon one arm of his throne.

Then, softly, its brush a cool kiss upon his temple, a flower budded off his crown. Then another, and another. Their delicate weight pressed ever so slightly upon his head, yet Thranduil felt the birth of each tiny flower as his crown was wrapped in floral glory.

Once corporeal, the flowers did not halt their growth. Thranduil felt their quickening and lifted the crown from his head with swift fingers. As he cradled the ancient symbol of his kingship in his hands, every single bud—dozens, clustered thickly like the fattest of grapes—swelled and broke open at once.

Every single bloom was a bright purple crocus framed by slender spikes of leaf.

From the flowers rose the words Nimuell had whispered, a breath now released with the completion of the spell: _Aran Nethelloth._ King of Young Blossoms.

Thranduil’s chest shivered, and his eyes shone as clear and bright as the first sky of _ethuil_ overhead. A full laugh broke from his lips and rolled down the great hall like the first warm gust of spring, and with delicate ease, he settled the crown once more upon his head.

Crocuses tickled his ears and his temples, wafting their delicate scent past his nose. Deep purple petals gleamed from the edges of his vision. Full flower heads bobbed lightly with his every breath.

“All things rise from the snows of winter, Nimuell. All things rise.”


End file.
